Devil May Care
by Firebird93
Summary: AU. Post-Paris. Andy, now Miranda's first assistant, is injured. Miranda reacts in an unexpected way.
1. Chapter 1

Pairing: Miranda/Andy

Disclaimer: _The Devil Wears Prada_ and its characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thanks to my mother and my fiancée for being my best critics; their feedback was invaluable.

* * *

Miranda Priestly swept into her office very early Monday morning, so early that the halls of _Runway_ were empty. She did this sometimes, coming into work before dawn when she couldn't sleep and the townhouse felt confining.

She put her coat and bag away and seated herself at her desk. Rather than booting up her computer, she turned her chair so that she could look out the window at the lights of New York City. She loved this view, often found both inspiration and consolation in it, but this morning she was not really seeing it. Instead, her thoughts drifted to _La Ville-Lumière_, The City of Light, and the events of Paris Fashion Week.

Miranda had been deeply shaken by those events. So deeply shaken, in fact, that she had resolved to make some changes upon her return to New York. And she had begun—gradually and subtly—to implement those changes. She relinquished some control and delegated more to those on her staff who had proved themselves capable and creative, which allowed her to spend more time with her twin girls. Though she was still demanding, exacting, and critical, wielding her infamous sharp tongue to eviscerate the incompetent, it was not unheard of for her to offer a word of praise for a job exceptionally well done.

Her first assistant, Andréa Sachs, consistently did her job exceptionally well. She had demonstrated compassion and loyalty to Miranda even though Miranda deserved neither. It made Miranda physically ill to think of how close she had come to driving away the young woman. The girl had said nothing to indicate that she was mere moments from quitting there and then, but Miranda had seen the look in her eyes, the shock and dismay and disgust on her face, the tension in the set of her shoulders. Everything about Andréa had communicated her readiness to flee.

Thank God she hadn't.

In the ensuing months, Andréa had become absolutely indispensable to the editor as Miranda navigated an ugly divorce, broke in a new art director, and moved to oust Irv Ravitz as CEO of Elias-Clarke—and it had little to do with the fact that Emily Charlton, Miranda's then-senior assistant, had been on crutches for six weeks and thus limited in what duties she could perform.

And while it did have a great deal to do with the young woman's ability to anticipate Miranda's needs and to find solutions to problems, Miranda had to admit that it also had to do with Andréa's warmth and kindness and steady presence, which were much more in evidence now that Miranda was less of a bitch in the office. Having the girl near her helped her stay focused and calm.

She was also, Miranda admitted to herself, a pleasure to look at, especially when she smiled.

But, Miranda realized with a frown, lately Andréa's smile had been appearing less frequently and the light seemed to have gone out of her brown eyes. She was still as efficient and professional and reliable as ever—and not all that long ago that's all Miranda would have cared about—but the new and improved Miranda was worried.

Miranda had heard that Andréa and her boyfriend had broken up just after Paris Fashion Week. Perhaps her assistant was experiencing some sort of delayed depressive episode related to that. Or was something else going on? It pained the editor to think how little she knew of Andréa's life, how little she knew of her thoughts, perceptions, and opinions.

She was brought out of her reverie by the pinging of the elevator. She looked at her watch. Hmm. Still another hour before any of her staff would normally arrive. She turned her chair back toward her desk and looked toward the door. Who else had felt compelled to arrive extra early today?

The dim light in her outer office illuminated the figure of Andréa Sachs. Miranda stifled a gasp. Her assistant looked terrible. She was dressed in a pair of baggy sweatpants, a t-shirt, and sneakers. Her beautiful face, which was without a trace of makeup, was ashen. Her right arm was in a cast—and in a sling that held the arm in external rotation, an indication that Andréa had also sustained a shoulder injury.

Dear God, what had happened to the girl?

Miranda stood and walked quickly to the door, her footsteps muffled by the carpet.

"Andréa," she called softly, hoping not to startle her too badly.

Andy jumped as adrenalin coursed through her, causing her heart to pound. _Oh, no._ "Miranda," she breathed in horror. Her boss wasn't supposed to be here yet. No, she was not due in for at least another hour, which would have given Andy time to type (one-handedly) a formal letter of resignation. More importantly, it would have given Andy time to gird her loins emotionally so that maybe, just maybe, she could leave _Runway_—leave Miranda—with a modicum of dignity.

She watched as icy blue eyes raked over her, saw with a sinking heart the pursing of lips. Andy dropped her gaze to the floor in despair.

Miranda studied the young woman closely. Andréa, she observed, was barely holding it together, though she was making a valiant attempt. She was trembling, her jaw was set, and her left hand was now clenched into a tight fist. She looked exhausted, as if she might collapse at any moment, and there was a tightness to her mouth and around her eyes that indicated she was in considerable pain.

The editor was struck by a fierce desire to take her into her arms. She was not so much stunned by the impulse itself as by the strength of it. She managed to restrain herself—of course she did—and instead asked gently, "How did you sustain your injuries?"

Andy's eyes flew up in surprise. Though her boss had become less draconian since Paris, Miranda was still notorious for being uninterested in explanations and part of Andy still expected that the editor's sole concern would be that she was down one assistant.

Andy gave a self-deprecating shrug with her good shoulder. "I fell down some stairs. Clumsy of me."

_Is that what really happened?_ Miranda wondered, not convinced that was the whole story. _Because if someone_—_that scruffy cook, for instance_—_raised a hand to this girl, I will make sure that he spends his life in prison as someone's bitch._

"Obviously"—Andy gestured weakly with her left hand to her dominant right arm—"I am not able to fulfill my duties as your assistant." Ruthlessly suppressing her tears and praying that her voice would not crack, she said, "So I am tendering my resignation, effective immediately."

_Andréa leave? No! Not like this. Unacceptable._

"Andréa, I do not accept your resignation."

Andy gaped and stuttered, "B-but—"

Miranda held up an elegant hand. "For how long do you anticipate you will be incapacitated?"

"The broken wrist should take about four weeks to heal, but the shoulder—I dislocated it—will require physical therapy. I've been told I'll be in a sling for a minimum of four weeks and that it could take up to six months to return to full fitness." Andy tried to keep the details to a minimum. "Though it won't take six months to get to the point that I can take notes or dress myself appropriately enough to be here, it will still be weeks—"

"When you have recovered enough to function without significant pain, you will return to work—I don't care what you wear—to train and supervise your replacement. At that point, we will discuss your professional future." As much as the editor hated the thought of losing the best assistant she had ever had, she knew that even if Andréa had not been injured, it was about time for the young woman to move on anyway. "In the meantime, you are entitled to medical leave and you will use it. Starting now. Roy will drive you home. That's all."

Andy couldn't stop the tears of gratitude and relief from falling. "Miranda," she choked out, "thank you."

Miranda allowed a small smile of acknowledgment to play on her lips. "Go," she said sternly, but her blue eyes were soft.


	2. Chapter 2

At the end of the day, Miranda slid into the silver Mercedes with a quiet sigh. Though Jessica, the second assistant, had done a fair job handling things solo, the editor had missed Andréa. _Better get used to it_, she told herself, thinking grimly of the weeks ahead.

"Roy," she said to her longtime driver as they pulled up in front of her townhouse, "thank you for taking Andréa home this morning."

Roy nodded, but shifted uncomfortably.

"Roy?"

"Ms. Priestly, I may be way outta line for telling you this, but Andy had me drop her off at some flea-bag hotel in the Bowery."

Miranda went absolutely still for a moment even as her mind raced. "Roy, please fetch her and her belongings immediately and bring her here." She paused. "I know it's been a long day—"

"It would be my pleasure, Ms. Priestly," Roy assured her, meeting her eyes squarely in the rearview mirror.

"Thank you," Miranda said quietly before stepping out of the vehicle.

* * *

After making several phone calls, Miranda paced her foyer restlessly as she awaited Andréa's arrival. _How long has she been living in a flophouse? And why?_

She shuddered to think of the dangers an attractive young woman such as Andréa might encounter in a seedy, rundown area crawling with winos and druggies and mentally ill homeless people and other undesirables.

It was with no small amount of relief that Miranda heard the car pull up in front of the townhouse. Moments later, Roy entered with a couple of large duffel bags, a shame-faced Andréa in tow.

"Please take those to the second floor guestroom, Roy." Miranda's gaze never left her assistant, whose eyes remained fixed on her own feet. The girl looked tired and miserable. "Thank you."

Roy quickly did as he was bid and left the townhouse with a quiet, "Have a good evening, Ms. Priestly. Andy."

In the ensuing silence a mortified Andy looked forlornly at her worn sneakers.

"Andréa," Miranda said gently as the door closed behind the driver, "I am sure you can imagine that I have questions for you. But they can wait. Helen"—at the quiet mention of her name, Miranda's housekeeper/cook appeared and smiled kindly at Andy—"will take you up to your room and assist you with whatever you need."

Andy, exhausted and confused and embarrassed, merely nodded obediently before slowly following Helen up the stairs.

* * *

It was a gorgeous room, Andy noted absently, the décor a tasteful combination of traditional and modern. She wanted to fall into the queen-sized bed and sleep for days.

"What have you done to yourself, dear?" Helen asked with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue and a shake of her head. "Now, let's get you changed into a clean set of pajamas. Tomorrow morning I'll help you take a shower and get dressed—"

"Helen, no! It's not your job to take care of me, no matter what Miranda says. You already have so much to—"

"Easy there, honey. Ms. Priestly is compensating me. And believe me, I can use the extra money right now. Plus, with the twins away at camp for the summer, my workload has been quite light." She chuckled. "I've almost been bored."

This was too much for Andy to process. Not only had Miranda allowed her to keep her job (and by extension, her health insurance), but the so-called Snow Queen had also brought her into her home and arranged for assistance for Andy at the editor's own expense.

This incredible and unexpected kindness and generosity on the part of her employer wasn't going to help Andy get over the crush that had developed once the Dragon Lady had begun to cultivate a slightly softer, less harsh persona. She hoped that persona remained in place when Miranda received the answers to the questions she had refrained from asking this evening. Andy, already worried that she had lost the editor's respect, dreaded having to reveal the humiliating circumstances that had led to her current situation.

Andy swayed on her feet. Helen placed a steadying hand at the small of her back and peered at her face. "You're probably due for a painkiller about now, I'd guess. Come along. Let's get you into the bathroom to brush your teeth and…"

Andy didn't really register what else Helen said. In a daze, she let the older woman help her prepare for bed and get settled for the night.

"Thank you, Helen," she mumbled, but it was Miranda's face she saw before she fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, with Helen's patient assistance, Andy performed her ablutions, showered, and dressed—and then headed reluctantly downstairs to the kitchen, where she knew that Miranda was waiting for her.

What Andy didn't know is that Miranda had been unable to concentrate on the Book last night. She didn't know that the editor, her mind teeming with unanswered questions and concerns, with speculations and scenarios, had put the precious mockup aside and peeked into the guestroom to check on her injured assistant. She certainly didn't have any idea that her boss had gazed upon her with a combination of tenderness, protectiveness, and desire that left Miranda feeling vulnerable, uncertain, and off-balance.

Andy, feeling vulnerable, uncertain, and off-balance herself, inhaled the delicious scent of coffee as she entered the warm kitchen. "Good morning, Miranda," she managed without stammering nervously.

"Good morning, Andréa," Miranda returned quietly, her sharp eyes assessing the young woman. She nodded unconsciously in approval as she registered the freshly washed hair and the brown eyes considerably less dull and hazy from pain and exhaustion. She gestured to one of the empty barstools. "Sit down."

As Andy meekly complied, Miranda placed a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. "Eat. I understand that you shouldn't take your pain medication on an empty stomach."

"Thank you," Andy murmured, awkwardly taking a fork in her left hand. She felt herself flush with embarrassment. "This is not going to be pretty," she said apologetically.

Miranda felt her chest tighten in sympathy. Even with Helen's help, Andréa was going to have a very tough time of it. Endeavoring to put the young woman at ease, she arched an eyebrow, allowed the corner of her mouth to quirk upward, and drawled, "I shall endeavor not to be completely appalled."

Andy snorted a surprised laugh that thoroughly charmed the editor. "Seriously, Miranda, read the paper or go over the Book—something, anything—while I eat. Please."

"As you wish." She pretended to turn her attention to the _New York Times_, but watched Andréa out of the corner of her eye.

"How are you feeling?" Miranda asked once Andy had finished the laborious process of eating.

Andy smiled shyly. "Much better now that I've had a shower." Then her face fell. "I have no idea how I would have managed it—and other things—without help," she confessed, tears threatening. "Miranda—"

Miranda preempted her thanks. "Tell me what happened," she commanded with an encompassing wave of her hand.

"Nate and I broke up and he moved to Boston." Forcing back more tears—these of humiliation and dread—Andy recited the basic facts in a flat, emotionless voice, her eyes averted. "He paid his share of the rent until the lease was up. I couldn't afford the place on my own and I wasn't having any luck finding anything else."

Surely someone as wonderful as Andréa had lots of friends, Miranda thought. Why hadn't she moved in with one of them temporarily? Perhaps they had sided with the ex-boyfriend. Or perhaps her demanding job, with its insanely long and often erratic hours, had precluded a social life of any sort. Miranda felt a stab of guilt at that thought.

"And your injuries? Are they really the result of a fall?"

Andy nodded.

Miranda narrowed her eyes in frustration. Really, for a person who was usually quite verbose, Andréa was being remarkably reticent. "And what exactly were the circumstances surrounding your fall?"

Andy swallowed hard. "When I returned to the hotel after work Friday night, there was a man in the stairwell…" She recalled the smell of urine and rotting trash and cheap alcohol. "He was very drunk. He grabbed me." She stifled a sob. "In my struggle to get away, I took a step back and fell down the stairs."

Miranda was well and truly horrified. "This man, did he…hurt you in any other way?"

"No," Andy hastened to reassure her. "I was screaming in pain, fighting to stay conscious, and next thing I knew, I was surrounded by cops and paramedics. Someone must've called 911." She said nothing of the long, lonely hours spent in the emergency room that were followed by several more hours giving her statement to the police.

Miranda breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. "The man who attacked you was arrested?"

"Yes. He resisted arrest and assaulted a police officer, so even if the second degree assault charge doesn't stick, he's in serious trouble."

_Good,_ Miranda thought with a mental snarl, her expression hardening. She'd personally make a phone call to the D.A. just to be sure.

"Miranda," Andy began uncertainly, so many questions swirling in her head. "I… What… I mean—"

"You will stay here at the townhouse until you have recovered enough to function on your own and you have located a suitable place to live."

Andy's head whipped up and her jaw dropped open. "Miranda, I couldn't possibly—"

"Nonsense. You can and you will. Roy will drive you to any and all medical appointments, so inform Jessica when they are. Helen will provide meals and assist you as necessary. And, as we discussed yesterday, you will begin the process of hiring and training a new assistant once your health permits. Not one moment before." Miranda stood and fixed Andréa with a stern glare. "That's all."

And before a gaping Andy could say another word, the editor swept out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Andy promptly decided that her health did not preclude her making a couple of phone calls to her contacts at the School of Fashion at Parsons (where she had found Jessica) and F.I.T. They assured her that they each had several recent alumnae who were excellent prospects for the position of second assistant to the editor in chief of _Runway_ and, when she impressed upon them the urgency of the situation, promised that she would have their résumés within the next forty-eight hours.

Though she hated feeling useless and helpless, there wasn't much else she could do at this point, she surmised, so she spent much of the day resting—the painkillers made her very sleepy—in the luxurious guestroom. Wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible, she requested Helen's help only when absolutely necessary and made sure to eat dinner well before Miranda was expected back at the townhouse.

At nine p.m., a soft knock on her door interrupted her attempt to read the most recent issue of _The New Yorker_. Being down a hand made turning the pages difficult at best.

"Come in," she called, thinking it was Helen come to check on her one last time before leaving for the night.

To her surprise it was Miranda who stepped into the room. She looked devastatingly sexy, dressed as she was in a pinstriped power suit that showed off just the right amount of cleavage…

Andy tore her eyes away from Miranda's chest. Shit. Crushing on her boss was one thing; lusting after her was another. But _this_ Miranda, markedly different from the woman who, before Paris, had made Andy's life a living hell, was so damned attractive.

"Hello, Miranda," Andy greeted her, suddenly acutely aware that she herself was wearing only a pair of boxers and a tank top.

"Andréa," the editor said, pursing her lips at the sight of bruises marring those lovely long legs, "I am about to review the Book. If you are feeling up to it, perhaps you would care to continue reading in my study."

Andy blinked in pleased surprise at the unexpected invitation. "Of course, Miranda," she responded eagerly, setting down the magazine and moving gingerly to get out of bed. Her cheeks pinked slightly. "I just need to put something more on."

_Yes, you do. Because even bruised and battered, you are stunning to the point of distraction, _Miranda thought, allowing herself a moment to appreciate the young woman's lush curves before striding to the closet and opening it.

In fact, Miranda had been distracted all day, her mind returning repeatedly to Andréa and to the burgeoning attraction that was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress.

She should keep her distance, she knew, but in this, her iron self-control failed her, and she could not resist the urge to keep Andréa near, to spend time with her; hence, the invitation to join Miranda in her study. The editor pulled out a lightweight silk robe of cobalt blue. "This should suffice."

Andy's cheeks reddened further. "Would you mind helping me with it?" she asked shyly.

Wordlessly, Miranda closed the distance between them and carefully slipped the wide sleeve of the robe over the injured right arm first. As she tied the robe closed, she could feel the warmth of Andréa's body, smell the clean scent of her skin. The combination rendered her momentarily light-headed and she had to force herself to take a step back.

"Thank you," Andy murmured, her voice huskier than she would have liked and her blush now covering her neck and chest. She had never been so close to Miranda while barely clad and there was an intimacy to it that was both unsettling and thrilling.

Not trusting her own voice, Miranda could only nod.

* * *

Andy looked around the study—Miranda's inner sanctum—with such undisguised curiosity that Miranda had to smile.

The editor strode to the bar, her St. Bernard, Patricia, close on her heels. "You're not permitted alcohol, correct? Would you care for some San Pellegrino?"

"Yes, thank you."

Miranda pulled a bottle from the small fridge, opened it, and poured its contents into a hand cut crystal highball glass before pouring herself a glass of pinot noir.

"Make yourself comfortable," Miranda said, picking up both glasses and gesturing with her chin toward the Chippendale camelback sofa in front of the fireplace.

As a wide-eyed Andy did as directed, Miranda set the glass of mineral water on a coaster on a nearby mahogany Georgian side table, then seated herself in her favorite high-backed wingchair and took a slow sip of her wine.

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and hummed quietly in appreciation as Patricia settled at her feet.

Not quite able to believe that she wasn't experiencing a painkiller-fueled wish fulfillment dream, Andy stared at her boss. It was already plenty surreal that she, a lowly assistant, was essentially living in Miranda Priestly's townhouse for the foreseeable future, but to be permitted to spend time with her like this, to see her like this, well, that was nearly impossible to grasp. And it just about fried her brain to contemplate the woman's effortless sensuality.

Despite the drugs in her system, which seemed to affect Andy much the way alcohol did, she refrained from blurting out, "You're beautiful, and the more I get to see of you—all of you—the more I realize I am at risk of falling in love with you." Instead she said something equally truthful: "I am so grateful to you, Miranda. Thank you."

Hearing the quiet sincerity in Andréa's tone, Miranda felt a surge of warmth in the vicinity of her heart. She opened her eyes, tilted her head, and regarded her blushing assistant thoughtfully for a long moment. She wanted to tell Andréa that _she_ was the one who was grateful, that the young woman was part of the reason why the editor had changed and now liked herself more, liked her life more. But she merely murmured, "Yes. Well. You're welcome."

Andy could see that though Miranda was not displeased, she was uncomfortable—whether it was with too much gratitude or with too much emotion in general, she didn't know—so she asked, "How was your day?"

At this, Miranda smiled faintly. Though it was such an ordinary question, she knew Andréa wasn't making small talk; she was trying to determine just how much her absence was contributing to her boss' stress, to discover how Miranda was faring with only one assistant, and to gauge Jessica's ability to handle the job of two people.

"It was not a total disaster." From a purely professional standpoint, that was true. Jessica, so well-trained by Andréa, had again managed fairly well, this time with the help of other loyal _Runway_ staffers who gamely stepped in to lend a hand as they could. It was Miranda's own uncharacteristic distraction that had made the day even more difficult than it might otherwise have been.

Miranda leaned forward, setting her wineglass on the cocktail table before picking up the Book and slipping on her reading glasses. "Now if we could just find a cover girl who hasn't recently checked into rehab…"

Two hours later, the sound of the Book being closed decisively made Andy look up from her magazine.

"How bad?" she dared to ask.

"No worse than usual." The editor glanced at her white gold Cartier watch, then removed her reading glasses and set them atop the Book. She looked closely at Andréa and could see the younger woman was tired. "I think it's time to get some sleep."


	5. Chapter 5

Andy yawned as she carefully re-reviewed the résumés and cover letters that had come in via email. On paper, all four candidates for the position of second assistant looked promising, but Andy was well aware that what she really needed to know she would only discover upon meeting each job applicant. Which, as she had made the appropriate phone calls earlier, would be happening tomorrow.

She grimaced and scrunched her eyes closed. Miranda had asserted that she didn't care what Andy wore to the office while recovering, but the idea of showing up at _Runway_ in a pair of sweatpants and a threadbare tank top made her nauseous. Her meager wardrobe had no dress shirts with sleeves wide enough to allow a cast to pass through and, should she need to use the bathroom, she would have difficulty dealing with slacks with buttons or zippers. Perhaps a skirt… God, that would get embarrassingly wrinkled.

"Ugh," Andy groaned.

"Andréa, are you in pain?"

Miranda's cool voice startled Andy, who opened her eyes to see her boss standing in the doorway of the guestroom with a look of concern etched across her beautiful face.

Andy flushed crimson. "No, Miranda. I'm fine."

Miranda tilted her head and studied the young woman sitting cross-legged on the bed, a bulky, scratched up laptop open next to her. There was no tightness around her mouth, no dullness to her brown eyes, so Miranda concluded that her assistant was telling the truth.

"What seems to be the problem then?"

Andy was reluctant to tell her, fearing that the editor would make poor Jessica, already overwhelmed, make a late night run to the Closet in search of something, anything, that Andy might be able to wear that was _Runway_-appropriate.

"Andréa," Miranda prompted, letting a little impatience seep into her voice.

"Um, tomorrow I'm supposed to be interviewing job applicants…"

Miranda resisted the urge to sigh. Of course Andréa would already be well into the process of finding a new assistant. The editor should have known—and she was both exasperated and impressed. Really, the girl might very well be too conscientious for her own good.

"…and even though you said it doesn't matter what I wear…" Andy trailed off miserably.

"I see," Miranda said with a slight smirk as she stepped farther into the room. "Fortunately, I had anticipated that this might be a problem, though I had not anticipated it would present itself quite so soon. I believe you will find this"—she held up a bag that Andy hadn't noticed she was carrying and placed it on the bed—"adequate. And I will arrange for additional clothing to be delivered."

The expression on Andréa's face—a combination of surprise and gratitude—was immensely satisfying to the editor, who regarded her fondly.

"Now," Miranda said firmly, "it is very late and you need to sleep." She herself was tired. It had been an especially long and difficult day followed by a long dinner with Donatella, the duration of which Miranda had spent wishing she were back in the townhouse study with Andréa. "We will be leaving at 8:00 sharp tomorrow morning and I want you to eat breakfast beforehand. So close up that laptop"—now that she was closer, the editor could see a résumé on the screen—"this instant."

Touched at Miranda's concern for her wellbeing, Andy obeyed immediately. "Yes, Miranda."

Miranda picked up the heavy laptop and set it on the nightstand, then placed the bag she had brought on the floor of the closet. When she turned to face the bed again, she found Andréa's dark eyes focused intently on her. She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"How was your day?" Andy asked. Though Miranda's clothes were impeccable and her makeup was flawless, the set of her shoulders and jaw betrayed her fatigue to the young woman who had spent so many months learning to read her boss' body language and facial expressions.

"Why do I suspect that when you logged into the _Runway_ network to input the interviews you will be conducting tomorrow, you peeked at today's schedule and already know?" Miranda asked, her tone affectionately chiding.

Andy didn't deny it. "Knowing what was on your schedule doesn't tell me how your day actually went," she pushed.

"It was…rather trying. You were sorely missed," the editor confessed, pleased by Andréa's increasing boldness in their interactions. "The Holt preview was…disappointing. And Testino is violently ill with some tropical disease he picked up while in Bolivia; fortunately, Demarchelier is willing to make himself available for the cover shoot, but we had to shift the date to accommodate his schedule, and you know what a logistical nightmare that will cause."

"I'm sorry, Miranda," Andy whispered. _And poor Jessica…_

"None of that, Andréa," Miranda admonished, stepping closer and placing a soft hand on her assistant's uninjured shoulder.

Andy's breath caught at the unprecedented tender touch.

"Goodnight, Andréa." The editor reluctantly removed her hand and moved toward the door. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Miranda," Andy replied quietly, already missing Miranda's touch and somehow knowing that it would haunt her dreams that night.


	6. Chapter 6

Miranda pursed her lips upon reviewing the day's schedule. Her own schedule was no worse than usual, but Andréa had scheduled four—_four_—interviews. And knowing her very competent, conscientious assistant as she did, Miranda knew that those interviews would be extensive and thorough and therefore would also most likely be exhausting for the young woman.

As much as Miranda wanted another assistant in place as quickly as possible, she did not want Andréa risking her health to make it happen. Miranda suspected that the girl, driven by a misplaced sense of guilt and a genuine desire to make Miranda's life easier, would run herself into the ground in an attempt to please the editor. She certainly had in the past, though Miranda had little doubt the motivation was completely different.

The young woman had been ready and waiting for Miranda the requisite fifteen minutes early this morning. Miranda had given her the usual once-over, noting with approval how well the girl wore the bronze silk tank top, elegant loose flowing chocolate-colored slacks, and gorgeous Christian Louboutin stilettos Miranda had selected for her. She assumed Andréa was also wearing the lingerie she had brought, and the thought of luscious curves defined by sheer lace caused heat to surge through her.

Andréa had headed immediately to Hair and Makeup upon their arrival at _Runway_, returning to Miranda's office with her hair straightened, the last traces of dark circles under her eyes completely concealed, and a light application of blush, lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner. She looked more sophisticated and glamorous, but Miranda was oddly disappointed by the disappearance of the fresh-faced young woman with hair tumbling around her shoulders in loose waves.

As she ate breakfast at her desk, the editor overheard Jessica greet Andréa warmly and respond enthusiastically and gratefully to the suggestions the senior assistant made for dealing with the stickier scheduling issues related to the cover shoot.

"Oh, the first interviewee is due in any second," Miranda heard Andréa say as the editor opened her laptop and brought up the schedule. "Gotta run. See you later."

"Good luck, Andy," Jessica called after her. "Find us a good one!"

And Andréa was gone before Miranda could warn her not to overtax herself.

* * *

Following the final interview, Andy made her way back to her desk and sank shakily into her chair. She was exhausted and in considerable pain, but elated.

She had put all four candidates through their paces in an effort to determine which if any possessed the qualities necessary to survive and succeed as Miranda Priestly's assistant—and she believed that one of them, a petite Asian-American go-getter named Laurel, did. Plus Jessica would like her, which Andy knew from personal experience would make the job easier for both assistants. Laurel just needed the stamp of approval from the editor herself.

Andy opened a drawer and fumbled clumsily for the Percocet she had placed there earlier. As she found it, she remembered that its container had a childproof cap. Shit. Jessica was nowhere to be found—Andy assumed Miranda had either dismissed her for the day or allowed her to go until the Book was ready—and Andy refused to bother Miranda, who, if Andy recalled the schedule correctly, was on an international conference call.

With a quiet groan, Andy put her head down on the desk.

Even in the midst of her important conference call, Miranda had been aware the moment Andréa entered the outer office. She was eager to see the girl, to reassure herself that her assistant was all right, and was dismayed to see Andréa practically fall into her chair and, shortly thereafter, lay her head wearily on her desk.

As soon as she hung up the phone, a very concerned Miranda hastened into the outer office.

"Andréa," she said, worry making her voice sharper than she intended.

Andy jerked upright to find her boss standing in front of her, lips pursed. _Fuck,_ Andy thought, tensing in anticipation of a verbal evisceration. _What was I thinking, resting my head on my desk like a tired schoolgirl? This is the office of Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of _Runway, _not an elementary school classroom._ "I'm s-sorry, Miranda."

Miranda did not like seeing that look on Andréa's face, which clearly communicated that she was bracing herself for a dressing down the likes of which the editor had not directed her way in months. She liked even less the underlying pallor of her assistant's skin, the clench of her jaw, the tightness around her eyes and mouth, and her obvious exhaustion.

Miranda wanted to shake the girl. She wanted to wrap her in her arms. She wanted to scold her. She wanted to protect her from her own desire to please Miranda at any cost.

Of course, the young woman had no way of knowing that the pursing of lips was as much a reflection of Miranda's irritation with herself as it was her frustration with and worry about Andréa. Miranda should have called Andréa into her office this morning and made her cancel two of those damn interviews.

Miranda exhaled slowly and forced her facial features to relax. Reacting to feelings of helplessness by lashing out in anger was proving to be a hard habit to break, but she was determined to do so.

When she understood that no harsh reprimand was forthcoming, Andy relaxed fractionally. She opened her mouth to report to Miranda on the results of her interviews, but was preempted by the editor's extending an elegant hand toward her. She stared at it in incomprehension until she realized that Miranda wanted the bottle of Percocet.

Miranda took it from Andréa's trembling fingers, twisted off the cap, tipped a pill into her palm, and handed the tablet to Andréa. "I'll get you some water," Miranda said, turning on her heel.

She returned moments later with a bottle of water, which she opened for Andréa before giving it to her.

"Thank you," Andy murmured, then proceeded to down the Percocet under Miranda's watchful gaze.

"Come," Miranda ordered, striding toward her office.

Andy dutifully followed.

The editor pointed to the couch in the corner. "You will rest there while I finish up. I shouldn't be much longer."

"But I still need to—"

"Andréa," Miranda cut her off. "Do not make me repeat myself."

"Yes, Miranda."


	7. Chapter 7

Andy toed off her heels and carefully seated herself on the pristine white sofa.

"Perhaps you should lie down, Andréa," Miranda said from behind her desk as she slid on her reading glasses.

Though couched as a suggestion, it was, Andy knew, a command, and she complied, her movements awkward and slow. When she finally managed to get settled, she distracted herself from the pain by watching Miranda work.

_The woman really is brilliant_, Andy thought, awed as always by the editor's fierce focus and intense concentration. Miranda seemed to embody the concept of "flow," a mental state about which Andy had learned in one of her psychology classes. No wonder _Runway_ meant so much to her; those who characterized Miranda as a career-obsessed workaholic, Andy realized as she stifled a yawn, did not understand how much joy and satisfaction the editor must find in utilizing her considerable skills and talents to meet the challenges of producing the world's foremost fashion magazine. _Yes, flow_…

Miranda looked up from her laptop to check on Andréa and was not surprised in the least to see that the young woman had fallen asleep. She was loath to disturb her, but Miranda needed to get back to the townhouse to change for a dinner party she was obligated to attend. At one time she might have looked forward to it as a way to pass a lonely evening without the twins, but now she viewed it as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it would keep her from spending more time with Andréa. On the other…it would keep her from spending more time with Andréa.

With a sigh, she shut down her computer and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the stiffness. Pushing back her chair, she stood and walked over to the couch.

She allowed herself a long moment to study the girl close up, her gaze greedily drinking in high cheekbones, full lips, and stubborn chin.

Leaning over, she placed a hand lightly on her assistant's left forearm. "Andréa," she called softly, "wake up."

"Miranda?" Andy, disoriented and now well under the influence of narcotics, blinked in confusion and struggled to sit up. It took her several seconds to recall exactly where she was and how she got there.

Miranda pressed her back down. "Slowly," she cautioned. "Let me help you."

And with a care that was generally reserved for her daughters—_though my feelings for Andréa are hardly maternal in nature,_ she thought wryly—the editor assisted Andréa into a sitting position.

Andy, dizzy as much from her boss' touch as from fatigue and having taken the Percocet on an empty stomach, really didn't want to move, but she pushed to her feet anyway.

The room spun dangerously and she staggered.

Miranda was quick to steady her. "I said 'slowly,' Andréa."

"Sorry," Andy said. She took deep breaths until most of the dizziness subsided. Only when Miranda removed her hands did it disappear completely. "I'm okay now. Thank you."

"Are you stable enough to walk in those?" Miranda asked as Andy stepped into her high heels.

"I think so."

"How very reassuring," Miranda drawled wryly. "Come. And please be careful."

Miranda, fearing Andréa might stumble or faint, kept close to her assistant as they made their way out of the building and into the backseat of the waiting Mercedes.

Once Roy pulled into traffic, the editor turned to Andréa. "Did you find a suitable replacement for yourself?"

Andy nodded. "Yes. I need to look at your schedule to determine when you will have a moment to meet her and approve—"

Miranda waved a dismissive hand. "That won't be necessary. I trust your judgment."

"Oh." Andy blinked in surprise and felt herself flush with pleasure at what was perhaps the highest compliment Miranda had ever paid to her. "Okay."

Miranda couldn't help but smile at Andréa's reaction.

"Um, her name is Laurel. She recently graduated from F.I.T. with a B.S. in Fashion Merchandising Management. Last summer she interned at Issey Miyake USA. She's fluent in Mandarin and her Cantonese is passable. I'll start training her first thing in the morning. Phones first, I think, so Jessica can run errands and—"

"Andréa," Miranda interrupted, her voice stern, "you will not overtax yourself tomorrow the way you did today. Am I clear?" She gave her assistant a hard look to drive home the point. "You will work until noon at the latest. That's more than enough time to teach the new girl the basics of the phone. It's not rocket science."

"But she might have to add something to your schedule," Andy protested, "and _that_ is complicated."

"She can leave that to Jessica for the time being." Miranda's tone brooked no argument.

Andy reluctantly nodded her acquiescence.

"Good. Speaking of the schedule, a good deal of the mess around the cover shoot has been straightened out." The editor raised an eyebrow. "I believe Jessica and I have you to thank for much of that."

Andy gave a single-shoulder shrug. "I just made a few suggestions."

"Yes. And they proved to be invaluable."

Andy warmed at the praise. "I-I'm glad I was able to help, Miranda."


	8. Chapter 8

Miranda changed into a black vintage Dior cocktail dress, touched up her makeup, and reapplied a drop of her signature perfume. Her hair, she determined upon assessing herself in the mirror, was perfect the way it was. Black Prada pumps dangling from the fingertips of her left hand and a small clutch grasped in her right, she silently descended the stairs.

The light was on in the kitchen and, as she drew closer, Miranda could make out the sound of voices. She was about to step inside and make her presence known when she heard Helen say, "Were you okay today on just ibuprofen, dear? I know you said that you needed your head to be absolutely clear, that the process of choosing a new assistant was far too important for you to risk being the slightest bit muzzy, but I worried that you would be in a great deal of pain."

Miranda narrowed her eyes. That wretched, wonderful girl.

From her place in the shadows just outside the door, the editor watched Andréa shift in her chair and bite her bottom lip.

"I was uncomfortable," Andréa admitted, "though it wasn't too bad for the first few hours. It caught up with me eventually, but it was worth it."

Helen clucked sympathetically as she fussed with something on the granite countertop. "Ah, then you found someone you think can cut it as Ms. Priestly's new assistant?"

"Yep," Andréa affirmed, satisfaction so evident in her tone that it made Miranda smile.

"I can't believe how quickly you managed it." The housekeeper placed a plate in front of the young woman. "Less than a week… And while so seriously injured. Couldn't you have waited a few days? If only for the sake of your health."

Helen's sentiments mirrored Miranda's exactly.

"No." Andréa jutted out her chin defiantly. "Miranda—and Jessica, for that matter—needs someone competent in there _now_. There's too much going on, too much to get done. Plus I'd go crazy sitting around here feeling helpless and totally useless, doing nothing to repay Miranda's generosity. I feel bad enough as it is."

"Andy—"

"If Miranda hadn't taken me in, if she hadn't arranged for you to help me, I would've had to go back to Ohio."

Though the words were a mere whisper, Miranda could still hear a tinge of shame and anguish that made her chest ache.

"Oh, honey."

Andréa shook her head as if to clear it. "Enough of that. Sorry. That's another reason I should cut back on the Percocet; it makes me maudlin. But it doesn't change the fact that I am deeply grateful to you and to Miranda. Thank you, Helen."

The housekeeper patted Andy's cheek. "You're welcome, child. Now eat."

Obediently, Andréa used her good hand to pick up what looked to be one of Helen's grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and took a bite. "This is so good. I'm famished."

"What did you have for lunch?"

"I grabbed a granola bar from the cafeteria. It seemed like the easiest thing to eat, given my limitations. Of course, the cashier had to open it for me."

Helen looked as scandalized as Miranda felt. "That's it? I'll make you a turkey wrap to take with you tomorrow. You can manage that with only one hand. And how about an apple to go with it? You like apples?"

Miranda decided she had heard enough for the time being. "Andréa will be returning to the townhouse at about twelve-thirty tomorrow," she said coolly, finally entering the kitchen and giving her assistant a pointed look. "She will eat here."

Helen bobbed her head. "Of course, Ms. Priestly."

Andy dropped her eyes to her plate. Not as an indication of compliance, but so that her boss wouldn't catch her ogling the flawless expanse of her neck, shoulders, and upper chest.

"I'll see you in the morning, Andréa, at eight sharp again. Get some rest."

Andy brought her gaze up and made her mouth form a friendly, noncommittal smile. "Have a good evening, Miranda."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: If you're looking for something to read between updates, check out _The Applicants_, a novel by Ari Morgan available on Amazon. It's not a lesbian romance, but it's funny and well-written.

* * *

"Andréa," Miranda called, her voice floating into the outer office.

"That's our cue. C'mon," Andy said to Laurel, who looked both terrified and thrilled at the prospect of finally meeting the reigning Queen of Fashion.

Miranda had already been ensconced in her office with strict orders not to be disturbed when Laurel arrived immediately after submitting her paperwork to Human Resources.

Jessica had welcomed the new hire with "Thank God you're here" before taking off, obviously eager to get started on the extensive list of errands she was expected to complete now that there was someone else available to cover the phones.

"Breathe. And don't forget your notebook and pen."

And with an encouraging smile, Andy led the way into the Dragon's Lair.

Miranda waited a full minute before slowly raising her head. Over the rim of her reading glasses, she swept her icy blue gaze over her new second assistant.

The girl standing before the editor's desk, gripping her notebook and pen so tightly her knuckles were white, was clearly starstruck. Miranda, quite used to eliciting that reaction, couldn't help but recall one memorable exception. And something about the look on Andréa's face made her think the young woman was thinking the exact same thing.

Miranda smirked.

Andy, who had indeed been remembering that fateful day she interviewed at _Runway_, blissfully unaware of just who Miranda Priestly was and more than a little dismissive of the fashion industry, caught the knowing, amused glint in the editor's eye.

"Laurel, isn't it?" Though Miranda's gaze never left the new girl's face, her attention was actually on Andréa, whose jaw dropped most satisfactorily.

Andy had good reason to gape. Miranda _never_ called new assistants by their own names until they had proved they could handle the job. At the beginning of Andy's tenure at _Runway_, the editor had called her "Emily." She had hated it. Jessica had been subjected to the same thing, but Andy's warning her ahead of time seemed to be enough to keep it from bothering the good-natured blonde. Now that Andy would be leaving, she had figured Miranda would call Laurel "Andréa."

"Remind Roy that he is to be out in front at noon to pick up Andréa. And get me Demarchelier. That's all."

"Yes, Miranda," Laurel squeaked as she scurried out.

It was a good thing that Laurel had already had plenty of time to learn the phones that morning and knew exactly what to do, because Andy remained rooted to the spot, her huge eyes fixed on Miranda in shock.

Because even if this were just another small change Miranda was incorporating into her management style, it was still enormously significant.

"I told you that I trust your judgment, Andréa." Miranda removed her reading glasses and allowed them to dangle from her fingertips.

The young woman stared disbelievingly at her. And then… There it was. That smile. That brilliant, luminous, genuine smile whose absence the editor had been lamenting just days ago.

"Though," Miranda said very softly, thinking of the conversation she had overheard the previous night, of the way Andréa worked so selflessly to protect the editor's interests, "I doubt that anyone, no matter how competent or efficient, could replace you."

Andy lost her heart completely to Miranda Priestly in that moment.


	10. Chapter 10

Andy had no idea how she managed to function for the rest of the morning. All she knew is that the effort to stay focused on training Laurel required every ounce of willpower and self-discipline she possessed.

By noon, she was so drained that she was actually relieved to leave the _Runway_ offices.

Before she departed, though, she handed Laurel "The Manual," a thick binder containing all of the information Andy wished she had possessed when she started as second assistant. "Study this over the weekend. It'll make your life a whole lot easier."

Laurel cradled the binder with something akin to reverence and nodded solemnly. "Thanks, Andy," she whispered. "Take care of yourself. I'll see you Monday."

Upon Andy's arrival at the townhouse, Helen helped her remove her makeup and change out of her stylish clothes, then ushered her into the kitchen for lunch.

The housekeeper kept up a constant stream of chitchat while Andy ate a turkey wrap that she barely tasted.

"Your color is not good, dear. Are you in pain?"

"A little," Andy confessed. "But I'm more tired than anything else."

"Perhaps you should take a nap," Helen suggested, handing Andy two ibuprofen.

"Yeah, I think I will. Thanks." Andy popped the tablets into her mouth and washed them down with a large swig of water before escaping to the welcome solitude of the guestroom.

Sleep, however, was slow in coming and Andy lay staring up at the ceiling, alternating between replaying Miranda's words in her mind and trying to convince herself that what she felt for the editor was just a serious crush.

Andy finally dozed off, waking to the sound of the heavy front door closing. She glanced at the alarm clock. Miranda must be home and, considering the time, would be hurrying to get ready for a charity ball she was scheduled to attend.

Well aware of her boss' modus operandi when it came to these things, Andy calculated how long it would take Miranda to prepare.

Almost to the minute Andy had predicted, she heard the editor emerge from the master suite and walk down the hallway. Andy remained motionless, barely breathing until she was certain Miranda had passed her door.

Only then did Andy slip out silently, careful to remain hidden in the shadows. Her breath caught as she watched Miranda regally descend the staircase. The editor looked stunning in a custom-made Valentino evening gown that displayed even more of her assets than last night's Dior, and Andy was struck by a fierce, visceral desire to run her fingertips along those delicate collarbones, to place feather-light kisses along that elegant neck… God, but she wanted to taste that pale, perfect skin.

Not that she would ever have the chance.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Miranda tilted her head as if she were listening intently or could sense Andy's eyes on her.

Heart pounding, Andy shrank back. It would be disastrous if she had to face Miranda while she felt so raw, while her emotions were in such turmoil; there was no way that she would be able to conceal her lust and longing, her confusion and fear, her adoration and affection.

Andy exhaled sharply when she heard the front door open and close, signaling Miranda's exit.

_You've got to get a grip, Sachs,_ she told herself sternly. _Miranda's going to be away for the weekend, so use the time to do it._


	11. Chapter 11

Miranda was in a very good mood as she skillfully maneuvered the silver Porsche Boxster along the interstate.

Despite the lengthy drive to and from the twins' camp in Maine, it had been a wonderful couple of days. Miranda smiled, recalling the way her daughters' faces had lit up when they saw that their mother had been able to come for Visiting Day. They had hugged her enthusiastically, grabbed her hands, and chattered ceaselessly about their new friends and the fun activities and the cool staff. And they just had to show Miranda the lake and the boathouse and their cabin and the horses.

Miranda cherished these moments with her girls, which had become more frequent since Paris Fashion Week, when Miranda had made a conscious decision not only to spend more time with her children, but also to be less permissive. Used to having their every whim indulged, they had rebelled at first, but adjusted remarkably quickly. They seemed to thrive, in fact, with the imposition of discipline and structure.

This very expensive seven-week camp had been chosen with this in mind. It was Andréa who had found it, of course, Andréa who had researched it and compared it to other summer camps.

Andréa. Miranda had hoped to see her before leaving on this jaunt, but the young woman had not appeared Friday evening. And Miranda had not expected her to rise at four a.m. on a Saturday.

"Welcome home, Ms. Priestly," Helen greeted her as she entered the foyer upon her return to the townhouse. "Would you care for something to eat?"

"Yes. Something light, please." Miranda set her purse on a small table, stepped out of her heels, and followed the housekeeper into the kitchen. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Andréa.

Helen set a chicken salad and a glass of mineral water in front of her as Miranda seated herself.

"I trust everything is well here." Miranda picked up a fork and speared some lettuce.

"Yes, Ms. Priestly. It was very quiet. Andy slept most of the weekend," the housekeeper reported. "Patricia seems to be quite taken with her. That dog has hardly left her side the past two days."

Miranda frowned. The St. Bernard did exactly the same thing when Caroline and Cassidy were ill…or sad.

Was Andréa sleeping so much because she had pushed herself too hard too fast? Because her injured body simply needed it? Or because she was depressed?

Probably all of those things. The young woman would bear close watching.

Despite an almost overwhelming urge to see Andréa immediately, Miranda forced herself to finish her meal before heading up the stairs.

The guestroom door was slightly ajar, but Miranda could hear no noise from within.

"Andréa," she called softly, pushing the door open further.

Her throat constricted with emotion when she caught sight of the young woman curled up on the floor asleep, her tear-stained face half-buried in Patricia's fur.

The St. Bernard raised her enormous head and thumped her tail softly in greeting.

Miranda walked over on silent feet, bent forward, and patted her faithful dog. "Good girl," she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from her assistant.

_Oh, Andréa._

She looked so gut-wrenchingly vulnerable that Miranda could not resist the compulsion to touch, to soothe. With a hand that trembled slightly, she reached out carefully and caressed a soft cheek, ran a gentle finger over a furrowed brow.

With a quiet sigh, the editor stood. Though everything about the scene in front of her communicated the young woman's need for physical contact and comfort, Miranda was certain that Andréa would be mortified if she knew Miranda had seen her like this.

So with one last regretful, longing, tender look, Miranda slipped into the hallway, leaving Andréa to sleep with a protective Patricia watching over her.


	12. Chapter 12

Andy was relieved to be back at work Monday. Over the weekend, without the haze of painkillers or a task to complete, she had felt especially acutely the limitations imposed by her injuries. She couldn't fill her time by exercising or writing in her journal. She found her focus wandering when she tried to read and she had no interest in watching TV. It would have been nice to spend time with friends, but when her relationship with Nate ended, so had her friendship with Doug and Lily.

God, she could just envision their reaction if they knew that she was living in the home of La Priestly. Their heads would probably explode.

She had found in sleep refuge from her feelings of loneliness, helplessness, and boredom. Too much sleep, she knew, appalled at herself for actually passing out on the floor Sunday night.

She had awoken, disoriented and stiff. When she regained her bearings, she took a deep breath as she attempted to stretch and could have sworn she caught a whiff of Miranda's signature perfume. Ridiculous, of course. It was merely a manifestation of her longing to be close to the editor.

And, really, how humiliating would it have been if Miranda _had_ come into the guestroom and discovered Any curled up on the expensive area rug, her face buried in Patricia's freshly shampooed fur?

Miranda.

All that sleeping had also allowed Andy to avoid thinking too much about her impossible, hopeless feelings for her boss. She would have to confront them eventually, but in the meantime, she was more concerned with not giving herself away to the perceptive editor. She could handle the inevitable rejection, but right now, she knew she was not strong enough to cope with the most likely reaction: amusement mixed with scorn.

Andy didn't think she'd revealed anything when she had greeted Miranda at the bottom of the staircase with a friendly smile and a sincere, "How are the girls enjoying camp?"

The genuine smile she'd received in return had caused her stomach to flip. It flipped again when Miranda performed the expected once-over and nodded her approval.

But was it Andy's imagination or had the editor's piercing blue eyes lingered on her face longer than usual?

Andy shook herself from her thoughts. Yes, work was just the distraction she needed.

"C'mon, Laurel," she said. "Jessica will cover the phones while I introduce you to more of the staff and show you around the _Runway_ offices."

* * *

"You'll recall from The Manual that Paul—"

Andy's explanation came to an abrupt halt when a tall, model-thin woman barreled out of the bathroom to their right. Andy managed to identify her as Monique Willoughs, a Clacker who made no secret of her disdain for Miranda's first assistant, in the split-second before the leggy blonde crashed into Andy's injured shoulder, causing her to drop to her knees and scream in agony.

"Andy!" Laurel cried, rushing to her mentor's side.

"Aww, did I hurt Miranda's little pet pig?" Monique cooed, a nasty smirk curling her lips—just as Miranda rounded the corner.

"Laurel"—the editor's unmistakable voice caused the color to drain from Monique's face—"call security and have this miserable excuse for a human being escorted from the building."

"Miranda," Monique stammered, clearly terrified, "I, uh—"

"You will be lucky to find a job at McDonald's by the time I'm through with you," Miranda hissed, her blue eyes flashing in fury. She knelt beside Andréa, whose quiet whimpers of pain were tearing her apart, and whipped out her own cell phone. "Jessica," she barked, "Andréa needs to go to the emergency ro—"

"No ER," Andy gasped. "Dr. Rima Shadlu."

"Andréa needs to see Dr. Rima Shadlu immediately. Laurel will accompany her. Inform Roy." She snapped her phone shut. "Andréa, can you stand?" she asked gently.

Andy didn't want to move, but she nodded weakly and allowed her boss to assist her to her feet. She fought not to vomit.

"Get her to the car," Miranda ordered Laurel, wishing that she herself could accompany Andréa.

Well, she thought, turning to glare at the woman who had caused this mess, she would simply channel these feelings of frustration, rage, and helplessness in one of the ways she knew best: by punishing the source of them.

* * *

Miranda had taken a certain savage satisfaction in watching security throw Monique Willoughs out of the Elias-Clarke building. And an even greater satisfaction in arranging for that revolting, wretched, vicious harpy's blacklisting.

It wasn't enough to erase the image of Andréa's ashen face or the echoes of her agonized cries and, for the first time in her adult life, the editor found herself actively wishing physical harm on another person.

Leaning back in her chair, Miranda indulged in a brief fantasy of inflicting excruciating pain on the cold-hearted bitch who had demonstrated such cruelty to someone Miranda had come to care for deeply.

_Care for. Deeply._ Miranda pondered those words. They indicated feelings that went well beyond physical attraction, beyond concern for another's well-being. Feelings that were becoming stronger every day.

And what, she wondered, was she supposed to do about these feelings? Ignore them and hope they'd disappear once Andréa recovered and moved on? The thought of never seeing the young woman again, of her not being in Miranda's life at all, caused a twisting sensation in the editor's chest. But so did the prospect of having Andréa close but not close enough.

Miranda sat up abruptly and scowled at the clock. She did not have time to wallow in what-ifs. There was too much work to be done, especially if she wanted to get home at a decent hour.

Home. Where Andréa would be.

"Dammit," the editor swore softly. Where was her vaunted laser focus? Her renowned concentration?

And more importantly, why the hell was there no news yet?

* * *

Andy drifted in an opiod narcotic haze. Her shoulder hadn't been re-dislocated, but Dr. Shadlu was concerned that she might have sustained soft-tissue damage. In record time—no doubt the result of Laurel's none-too-subtle dropping of Miranda Priestly's name—Andy had been taken for an MRI, the results of which, Dr. Shadlu assured her, would be expedited.

Helen had fussed over her from the moment a doped-up Andy stumbled into the townhouse. Though grateful for the housekeeper's attentive care, Andy found herself wishing for Miranda's presence. She told herself that it was the drug that was making her needy, but couldn't quite bring herself to believe it.

God, she was pathetic. Pining after her sexy-as-hell-but-totally-unattainable boss. No closer to getting a grip on her feelings. Further than ever, really, especially after Miranda's protective display earlier. The way the editor had become every inch the Dragon Lady, blue eyes blazing in an arresting combination of fury and concern, was both warming and arousing.

Andy sighed. Miranda would never be interested in Andy romantically, but it was clear that at least she cared about her. Andy would have to take what solace she could in that; she had no business wanting more. If only her stubborn heart could be convinced.


	13. Chapter 13

Her back against the side of the bed, Andy sat on the floor of the guestroom and stroked Patricia's soft fur.

"Heck of a week, Patty," she said to the dog, who thumped an enormous tail in response.

And it had been. Andy returned to work after an enforced day off following the incident with Monique Willoughs. She would never admit it, but she had needed it—and a great deal of Percocet—to get the pain under control. It had never fully disappeared, but Andy did her damnedest to hide her discomfort.

Andy doubted that Miranda would have been fooled by her façade had the editor's schedule not minimized their interactions. Viewings had kept Miranda out of the office more than in it, and evening engagements had her returning to the townhouse quite late.

That explained why Andy had not yet been forced to share the distressing but unsurprising results of her MRI: a torn labrum that would require surgery, surgery that Dr. Shadlu felt should be performed without delay.

She would put it off until she finished training Laurel, which wouldn't take much longer. Though pleased to see that Laurel was learning the job quickly, Andy knew that it meant that soon she herself would no longer be needed.

Miranda would certainly see to it that Andy would find a new job, but what was Andy supposed to do until she was once again fit to work? And, of course, there was still the issue of finding a suitable place to live.

Andy could feel her eyes burn with unshed tears. She didn't think she was even capable yet of living alone. And after surgery, she'd be in worse shape still. But how long could she continue to live in Miranda's townhouse? How long would she be welcome? And how could she live with herself if she were doing nothing in exchange?

The fact was that she couldn't. And that left her with only one option.

The tears finally fell.

* * *

Miranda took a sip from her glass of champagne and pretended to listen to the tuxedoed man on her left—an executive with one of _Runway_'s biggest advertisers—as he raved about a new art exhibition that he claimed she simply must see.

Years of practice made it easy for her to keep her fake smile firmly in place even as she mentally rolled her eyes and allowed her thoughts to turn to much more important matters.

Usually those matters were related directly to budget and layout, but tonight Miranda could only think of Andréa.

She had hardly seen the young woman this week. Well, at least when Andréa was awake. Every night before the editor went to bed, she stopped by the guestroom and lingered in the doorway, fingers itching to smooth the sleeping girl's furrowed brow. The lines marring Andréa's forehead suggested mental or physical distress that worried Miranda deeply.

It occurred to her that Andréa should have received the results of her MRI by now. Cursing the circumstances that prevented her from monitoring her houseguest more closely, she glanced discreetly at her bejeweled watch to ascertain how much longer she had to endure this insipid gathering.

"Jessica, inform Roy that I will be leaving in five minutes."

Yes, it was well past time for Miranda to be home.

* * *

Miranda entered the foyer and slipped off her Zanotti stilettos. It was utterly silent and still in the townhouse. There was no sign of Patricia, who clearly couldn't tear her enormous, perpetually slobbering self from the guestroom long enough to greet her mistress. Not that Miranda could really blame her, not when the editor herself wished to spend more time with Andréa.

_Lucky dog._ Miranda's lips twitched in amusement even as she rolled her eyes at her own sentimentality.

Soundlessly she made her way up the stairs. Andréa's door was half-open, but no light spilled into the hall. Miranda was disappointed, though not surprised. It was, after all, quite late.

Thus when she got closer, she was unprepared to hear the sound of muffled sobs.

Her gut clenching in worry, she dropped her shoes and moved swiftly into the room to find the pajama-clad young woman seated on the floor with her face buried in the thick fur of Patricia's neck. "Andréa, what is the matter?"

Andy jolted in surprise at the sound of Miranda's voice. How had she failed to hear the heavy front door open and close? Or the telltale clackety-clack of high heels on hardwood floors?

"M-Miranda," she stuttered, her eyes huge in the semi-darkness. She wasn't ready for this conversation. "I-I'm sorry. It's all catching up with me and I'm feeling sorry for myself."

At least it was the truth. Just not the entire truth.

"Quite understandable," Miranda murmured, stepping closer. "Perhaps your MRI results have something to do with the timing?"

"I need surgery," Andy confessed miserably as she struggled to her feet with a wince.

Miranda inhaled sharply, her rage at Monique Willoughs flaring before being quickly subsumed by the overwhelming need to provide comfort. Mindful of Andréa's injuries, the editor pulled her gently into a careful embrace.

It was the sweetest agony either woman had ever known.

* * *

It had been a mistake to allow herself to hold Andréa in her arms. A catastrophic tactical error. Because the moment Miranda felt the younger woman's curves against her own, she had experienced a possessiveness so visceral, so primal, that it shocked her. _Mine,_ she wanted to crow, to snarl, to trumpet, to claim and proclaim. _This is where you belong. I will protect you and cherish you and love you. And I will never let you go. Don't ever let me go._

Ridiculous romantic twaddle of the sort Miranda had never dreamed she would or could entertain about another adult.

She gave a snort of disgust and rolled over in the king-sized bed. It was pointless to yearn for someone she couldn't have.

_But what,_ a traitorous, optimistic voice in her head asked, _if you could have her? What would you do if Andréa indicated even the slightest interest in you?_

Miranda quashed it ruthlessly.


	14. Chapter 14

The memory of the moments she had spent in Miranda's arms was the source of as much anguish as ecstasy and did little to stop Andy from sinking into a depression that deepened with each passing day.

By mid-week, on the cusp of crumbling under the suffocating weight of guilt, frustration, helplessness, and hopelessness, she knew she could no longer put off the conversation she had to have with Miranda.

So with Patricia and a choking sadness dogging her heels, Andy slowly made her way to the study. She stopped in the doorway and drank in the sight of the editor seated in her wingchair, silver head bent over the Book.

"Miranda, I'm terribly sorry to bother you so late, but I was hoping I could have a moment of your time." Andy was shaking and she prayed for the emotional wherewithal to remain calm and dispassionate—at least until later, when she could break down in private.

The quiet seriousness in Andréa's tone had Miranda instantly on alert. "Come in and sit down," she said, focusing her full attention on the other woman and noting tense shoulders, clenched jaw, and trembling fingers.

Andy complied with jerky movements. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to make eye contact. "Laurel's training is essentially complete. Which means"—she willed her voice to remain steady—"I am no longer of any use to you, I mean," she corrected herself, "to _Runway_. So once again I am tendering my resignation, effective Friday at close of business."

Miranda relaxed. The problem of her assistant's immediate professional future was one she could easily solve. "You can still be of use to _Runway_, Andréa. I will move you to Features. You can critique articles and point out grammatical errors. They certainly make plenty of them."

Andy was stunned. Miranda tolerated nothing but the best when it came to _Runway_, but here she was willing to employ someone who couldn't even write or type. It was beyond generous—and absolutely unacceptable.

"Miranda," Andy said softly, "I can't. I can't take advantage of you and of _Runway_ like that. Even if I could, I still need surgery, which will prevent me from doing any work at all for a bit. I-I've decided that it would be best to go home." She fought back a sob. "To Ohio. Until I get through this."

Miranda stiffened. She was no more ready for Andréa to leave now than when the young woman was first injured. "Don't be absurd. Even if you don't work for _Runway_, you may stay here and Helen will continue to assist you until you are able to live on your own. That offer was never conditional upon your usefulness to me or the magazine." Did Andréa really think so little of her?

"I understand that," Andy assured her earnestly. "I do. It's about _my_ pride. About _my_ need to do something in exchange for your generosity. _My_ need to reciprocate." She sighed. "Though I would point out that your offer was made before I needed surgery that will prolong the amount of time I will require help."

Miranda's hurt dissipated only to be replaced by frustration and the stirrings of real panic. She narrowed her eyes at the too-noble-for-her-own-damned-good young woman, who responded by jutting out a quivering chin in stubborn defiance.

Why did the girl have to be so remarkably difficult about this? Miranda wanted to order her to abandon her foolish altruistic notions, but the reality was that the editor lov— admired her for them. In general. They were unnecessary and inconvenient at the moment and could be detrimental in the long run.

An unpleasant and altogether unwelcome thought occurred to her. "Perhaps you would really rather not be here at all and are offering a polite excuse. If that is the case—"

"No, Miranda," Andy burst out. "That's not it at all. The problem is how much I do want to be here. God, you have no idea how much. But how am I supposed to get over you if—" She stopped abruptly, the blood draining from her face as she realized what she had inadvertently revealed.

Oh, fuck. She covered her face with her good hand, knowing there was now no way she would be able to walk away with any dignity or with any part of her heart unbroken.

Miranda struggled to contain the hope that was rising in her. She had to be sure she had not misunderstood or misinterpreted what she had heard. "Andréa," she said gently, setting the Book and her reading glasses on the side table and leaning forward. When the girl did not respond, she tried again. "Andréa, look at me."

Andy reluctantly lowered her hand and raised tear-filled eyes. "Please," she begged, "don't say anything. I'm sorry. But now you know. You know why I can't stay." She stood and gave a sad smile. "I've fallen in love with you, Miranda Priestly. You. A woman so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport. And it's not a crush or some form of hero worship or gratitude or anything else that could be easily dismissed. God knows I wish it was."

She turned to flee, but Miranda rose to her feet in one fluid, graceful motion and moved quickly to prevent escape.

Bowing her head, Andy braced herself for further humiliation in the form of pity or condescension or contempt.

"Andréa," Miranda growled, "you are impossibly, infuriatingly decent, honorable, and considerate." She cupped the young woman's cheek and used a thumb to brush away tears. "Since you insist on viewing everything in terms of quid pro quo, then understand that your presence in my life has become a necessity. You make it better. You make me want to be better. Tell me what my selfish offer of assistance is in comparison," she demanded. "Would you deny _me_ the opportunity to do something in return?"

Hopeful but uncertain brown eyes finally fixed on the editor's face, prompting Miranda to press a kiss to lips that had parted in a silent gasp. "In case it's not clear, I've fallen in love with you, too, Andréa Sachs," she breathed.

Andy searched the other woman's countenance desperately, disbelievingly. The warmth, affection, tenderness, and desire she found there stole the air from her lungs, rendering her lightheaded and mute, and all she could do for a long moment was stare in wonder.

Miranda pulled Andréa closer and kissed her hard, laying claim even as she offered her own surrender. _Mine. Yours._ "Please stay," she murmured against that intoxicating mouth.

Knees weak, Andy nodded.

Miranda's smile was both relieved and triumphant. The editor would be content—for the time being—with the young woman's remaining in the townhouse solely for the duration of her recovery. Should Andréa then decide she needed her own place as they learned to navigate the complexities and challenges of their new relationship, Miranda would accept that. For a short while. She smirked. Because eventually Andréa would move into the editor's master bedroom permanently.

Where they'd be sure to put her ridiculous need to reciprocate to very good use.

For the rest of their lives.

FIN.


End file.
